Motionless seas. A two-faces clock. Lykan sees all.
The Dark Ages reigns on a world separated from Time, where men prefer war and women are lesser. Writing is outlawed and city gates close against the night, for the legend of the Wer is frighteningly real.
King Androdin sends his son Cadmus north to meet with his northern rival, Drakan of Caladin, and with him is Aris Delmann, leader of the army. Their journey takes an unexpected turn when they discover not only an enclave of women, but also powerful men from another world, among them Torrullin Valla and Elianas Danae.
Meanwhile, in the south, traitors have summoned an army from a distant land, and soon the first city falls to their might.
When the mages begin their own game of manipulation, using the two-faces clock, Lykandir becomes explosive. It needs but a spark and all hope will be lost.
How dare they? Now is the time to stand together, is it not? Lykandir is about to suffer an overdue shake around and no one will escape it.
Lykan sees all.
CHAPTER
10
For love of a friend,
one walks into danger.
~ Ancient Oracles ~
Avaelyn
The Singing Chapel
THREE days after the wasp attack, Torrullin summoned his team to the Singing Chapel on the grounds of the Healer’s Facility. Built as a sacred site, the stone building communed with nature and accepted all worship, whether of the Mother or a tree, flower, or a star in the heavens. It did not matter; what mattered was serenity, and here there was a tranquillity to soothe the soul when a loved one lay on a bed in the hospital a few feet removed. The day he and Elianas consecrated the site, over a century ago, bright-winged birds flew into the giant tree the chapel reposed under and commenced a song of ethereal beauty. Thus, the Singing Chapel. Even now, a multitude of harmonies played out on the branches overhead.
Shep Lore, the
architect and instigator for what he called the hospital, but Valleur thought
of as the Healers, as well as being its administrator, and the foremost healer
on Avaelyn, would not attend. Too many required his care at this point. None
had yet recovered from the wasp sting. Sabian had denied the summons also,
claiming he was engaged in determining both cause and solution to the foul
result of the stinging.
Torrullin hoped he
would find something, for those felled had been immune to his healer’s talent,
and that had never happened before. This ‘illness’ was either so new or so
ancient, there was no cure, one not even his remarkable abilities could delve
for. Like to Titan’s Disease in the past, which had at least responded to his
touch, this was a thing of sorcery, there was no longer doubt on that score.
Had it been biological, every man, woman and child would now be leaving the
hospital healed after being under his hands. Shep and Sabian would need to be caught
up on the other world situation, but in the present, they were where they were
most needed.
Elianas relaxed in
long-legged calm in one of the window seats, his gaze turned outward. He seemed
removed from the present. His long, dark hair lifted in the breeze - the doors
were open on both sides - and his fingers lay spread on his thighs. For this,
he had donned black - britches, boots - other than his tunic, a flowing white
silk. He appeared, Torrullin mused, much like the pirates in old stories. All he
needed was a cutlass.
“Where is your sword,
Elianas?”
The man did not move,
other than to say, “At home.”
He, Torrullin, had not
strapped his on either. He could not remember the last time he had cause to
wear it. In those first years after separation from Reaume, yes, for the
potential for strife still existed then, but thereafter only to swipe at midges
when he and Elianas raced along wild paths on their horses. Soon the day
arrived when neither man bothered to reach for their blades. Both kept them oiled
and sharp, however,
“Are you thinking we
should keep our swords close again?” Elianas asked, his gaze still turned
outward.
“Maybe.”
Dark hair swung as
Elianas moved his head to rake him with an unreadable gaze. “You chose full
black for this gathering. Making a statement or expecting trouble?”
The black had been his
trademark apparel, as it had been for Elianas, but with time he had set aside
what he regarded as both armour and war gear, and had chosen loose-fitting
natural hues. In winter, certainly, he sometimes donned the black, but that had
to do with staying warm, not much else. “Both,” Torrullin murmured.
“Why make a statement?
We are not expecting strangers, Torrullin.”
“Says the man who
almost did the same. Tell me why you chose that shirt.”
Elianas’ head swung
back to the outward view. “Too hot for a woven tunic.”
“That’s your reason?”
“What else can it be?”
The itch of frustration
over Elianas’ attitude revealed to him that they were in contrary mode both. In
the past this led to extreme confrontation between them; were they headed in
that direction again?
“Elianas, I don’t want
to fight.”
“Too bad. Maybe I do.”
Now what the fuck did
that mean? About to stride in to haul the man from the seat, Torrullin was
forced to pause, for he heard Teroux’s voice on approach, talking to someone as
he walked. “Saved by the bell,” he muttered.
A smile curved onto an
amber cheek, but Elianas did not look his way.
Teroux, golden hair
flowing over his shoulders, his tawny eyes bright, entered all smiles, his arms
held wide. Grinning, Torrullin walked into the embrace, and both slapped each
other’s backs before drawing apart. “Good to see you, Teroux. You look well.
The ocean air definitely suits you.”
“Man, my new ship is
fantastic! You and Elianas have to come for a sail … where is Elianas? Oh,
there you are!” Grinning, Teroux moved in Elianas’ direction, who swung his
legs to the floor and stood. The two clasped arms in ritual greeting.
“We’d love to sail,”
Elianas smiled.
“Just say when,” Teroux
grinned.
In the time before,
Elianas and Teroux had issues and barely tolerated each other. They were not
best friends today, but after a century of sun, sea, and his own company,
Teroux had grown up and no longer sought to hold on to the past. His greeting
and smile, therefore, was sincere, and Elianas responded to it, although only
Torrullin understood the dark man still had reservations. He would probably
never entirely trust Teroux.
“Who were you talking
to?” Torrullin asked.
“Quilla. Now where has
he got to?” Teroux moved to a bench and sat, crossing his legs.
“Here, here,” Quilla of
the Q’lin’la chirped as he entered. A tiny being with feathered crown and
wings, the birdman was Torrullin’s most trusted friend. His cherubic cheeks
bulged as he smiled greeting, “Such lovely harmonies, had me entranced.
Torrullin, I have missed you. And you, Elianas. Teroux at least has been to the
Lifesource; I hope you two will pay a visit soon.”
The Lifesource
Cathedral was the sacred site on Avaelyn. Erected between two mighty
peaks with a gigantic waterfall to one side, it gave homage to the lifegiving
waters of their world, and in return offered healing of the mind to all who
entered the ethereal chambers within chambers. Many visited simply to listen to
the magic of the music surrounding them as they wandered through. Although a
Valleur site, it was also Quilla’s home, and was the only access to the Q’in’la
moonlit homeworld.
“Soon,” Elianas echoed.
“Hello, Quilla. It is good to see you.”
Tiny hands clasped
together. “Likewise. We are too scattered in the present.”
“Peace does that,”
Torrullin grinned.
Bright blue orbs
speared him. “Meaning peace is about to be disrupted, given we are gathering?
Oh, I hope not.”
“I agree,” Teroux said.
“Those wasps? Is that what this is about?”
“They appear to be a
symptom of a larger problem. I will explain when Tarlinn joins us,” Torrullin
responded.
“Will he join us?”
Torrullin shrugged at
his grandson. There was no way of knowing, was there?
Quilla meanwhile moved
to stand before Elianas, his feathered head thrown back to look up at the man.
“You are disturbed.”
“The news is not the
best.”
“No, Elianas,” Quilla
murmured, and reached up to lay a tiny hand over the dark man’s heart. “I mean
in here.”
Placing a hand over the
tiny one, thereby engulfing it, Elianas said, “Perhaps I will come to the
Lifesource, for clarity.”
“Good.” Swinging away,
the birdman next came to rest before Torrullin. “The black, my friend?”
Peripherally tracking
Elianas’ suddenly uncoordinated movements, Torrullin muttered, “You need to
take this seriously.”
“That bad.”
“Potentially, yes.”
“Oh dear,” Quilla
sighed, and moved to perch beside Teroux.
As Elianas returned to
the window seat, sitting with his legs hanging over the edge to face the
interior, a new shadow darkened the entrance.
Tarlinn had arrived.
HE PAUSED in the doorway to study those already present.
Torrullin Valla. The
man of many titles. Elixir. Walker of Realms. Shadow Wings. Lorinin. Ancient.
Eternal Companion. Timekeeper. And Vallorin, the one that counted most for him,
Tarlinn. The Valleur who was both Valla and Danae, a true immortal. That list
of titles was what led to Torrullin choosing to bow out from Reaume, and who
could blame him?
Elianas Danae.
Torrullin’s equal in power, his list of titles as impressive. Alhazen. Shadow
Wings. Ancient. Eternal Companion. Timekeeper. The Danae. The Vallorin without
a throne. How he wished Elianas had taken that seat. A Danae with Valla blood
also, truly immortal.
He knew these two men from
the inside out. He was and ever would remain the sentient part of the Valleur
Throne, but having chosen to accompany The Valla and The Danae into their
portal existence, he now walked on two legs like to any other. The Throne
itself, back in Reaume, was autonomous, and yet, if he wished to, he could
simply return to inhabit the seat as he had for eons upon eons, through cycle
after cycle. He no longer wished to, but his choice did not detract from his
powers at all. As in the past, when Torrullin, first and forever Vallorin of
the Valleur in his opinion, sat on his Throne, and knowledge flowed between
them, thus it was now. Elianas had hidden as essence within the golden seat for
a lengthy period, believing himself alone, waiting, and Tarlinn the sentience
had left him to that belief, for it was how the man coped with the long wait.
Indeed, yes, he knew these men from the inside out.
A century had gone by
as a man. Often, he needed to vanish to cope with that, for a century when
compared to the eternity elapsed? It played with his mind. Sometimes he
questioned his choice academically, and at other times he screamed his elation
at the spaces … and did not need witnesses for that.
Tarlinn’s attention
shifted to the only other Valla on Avaelyn - Teroux. The young man - no longer
that young at over a century - had finally lived up to his potential. Teroux
Valla had a rough time growing up. As a man who preferred men, he hid his
secret, and it bowed his soul. He wed the lovely Rose and betrayed her for
Elianas, which that man utterly denied him. Time had moved on and there was
peace between them, and Teroux had blossomed to become his own man, while
Elianas remained contained when in his presence.
And Quilla of the
Q’lin’la. A true friend to Torrullin, his only confidante. How blessed Avaelyn
was that this tiny birdman had chosen to turn his back on Reaume. He said it
was because his time had expired there, but Tarlinn knew the real reason was
his love for Torrullin.
Glorious men, and here
he was, unremarkable, average … generic. A face overlooked in a crowd. Features
soon forgotten, his choice. And yet his power, while different, was on par with
both Torrullin and Elianas. They were waiting for him to speak. “Greetings,”
was all he said, and moved forward to clasp arms with all except Quilla, who
grinned impishly his way.
“Six years this time,
Tarlinn,” Torrullin pointed out. “What were you up to? No one saw you.”
“Here, there. High,
low. This is an ancient world and keeps secrets. I wanted to know.”
“And what did you
discover?”
“I now know how Avaelyn
will return to Reaume.”
Utter silence greeted
that statement, and Tarlinn watched the reactions with curiosity. Torrullin
inhaled, and closed his eyes, and that, he understood, was all about relief.
Thus, Torrullin already knew they would return, and he realised the way had
been found. Elianas remained expressionless, other than incrementally shifting
his gaze to evaluate Torrullin’s reaction. Thus, the Danae knew as well, and
now wondered how soon Torrullin would agitate for that return. Quilla’s mouth
rounded and Teroux paled to ghostly white.
“Return? I don’t want
to go back,” Teroux whispered.
“Tactless, Tarlinn,”
Torrullin snarled.
“No, my brother. This
is knowledge we may need soon. If we cannot prevent the seas boiling away,
escape from this realm will be the only answer.”
“Fuck,” Elianas
groaned.
“What the hell does he
mean?” Teroux demanded of Torrullin. “Boiling seas?” No doubt Teroux’s first
thought was for his fleet of ships. “What bloody boiling seas?”
Threading both hands
through his shoulder length hair, Torrullin said, “You are therefore aware of
the situation.”
Tarlinn nodded. “I am.”
“You came to tell us
about this dubious escape hatch.”
“I did.”
Torrullin grinned
mirthlessly. “Hasn’t that just put a cathron among the falcons?” Inhaling, he
faced Quilla and Teroux. “Listen now, here’s what’s happening …”
Healer’s Facility
MANY lay in delirium upon beds in the hospital and Shep Lore moved amongst them, hoping to at least make them as comfortable and pain free as was possible. Friends and family of his patients hovered, waiting for the healer to give his prognosis. He had nothing to offer them, and prayed that Sabian would find an answer. Torrullin’s healing attempts had had no waken and heal effect, although it did delay what other healers were saying was inevitability. They lost three men before Torrullin arrived that first day. This was day four, and none had yet recovered naturally.
Of the swarm there had been no further sign,
but reports of sightings of small groups had filtered in from every region. No
further attacks had yet occurred and for that Shep was beyond thankful.
One man kept drawing his gaze and he was unsure
whether the man was human or Valleur; his dark hair spoke of being human while
his attitude screamed Valleur. He hovered over a golden-haired Valleur writhing
and moaning, whispering to him, no doubt hoping his words of support would aid
the poor man. The hovering one reminded Shep so much of Taranis Agripson, the Guardian
of yesteryear, that he could not help but glance over repeatedly, certain his
eyes were deceiving him. The man was nervous, and that nervousness went beyond
what he felt for his friend in delirium. He continually looked to the ward
entrance as if expecting someone to enter, a someone he did not particularly
wish to see, or was wary of encountering, but because he cared for the ill man,
he took the risk. Gut instinct told Shep that, by all gods, this day would
bring utter change.
Sabian entered then, and Shep noticed how the
watching dark-haired man almost deflated in his relief. Shep and Sabian had
over the last century become best friends, often working together, one being
practical, the other a researcher. They made things happen, much to Torrullin’s
continued amusement.
“Shep?” Sabian queried. “Have a moment?”
The rotund, purple-clad form saw something in
Sabian’s expression, for he nodded and followed the man out. Neither noticed
that the dark-haired one trailed after them.
The two halted in an alcove and engaged in
whispered conversation. “I can now confirm each of those creatures was, in some
form, a wasp, but not of the natural order,” Sabian murmured.
“What are you inferring?” Shep demanded. “My
patients need me; get to the point.”
“Sorcery, Shep,” Sabian snapped. “What else is
there? Someone has infiltrated Avaelyn, someone with bad intentions.”
“Who?”
Sabian threw his hands up. “I don’t know,
idiot.”
“What can be done to stop this? I don’t care
how or why right now; I need an answer!”
“Hush, will you?” Sabian inhaled and lowered
his own voice. “According to the Lore Book, there is only one countering that
will work. The heated tip of a special sword must be placed upon the brow of
the man stung, and he will then recover.”
Shep nodded vigorously. “Well, good. Where’s
the sword?”
Sabian stared at him. “I have no idea, or even
if it exists.”
Paling, Shep whispered, “The great words have
names. Is it not Trezond or Kilathen?”
“Neither Torrullin nor Elianas’ swords have
sway in this, unfortunately. This one is named Iniralin.”
“Never heard of it.”
Sabian swore under his breath, and asked, “No
race memory?”
Shep Lore shook his head.
“Then we’re screwed, my friend.”
The dark-haired man moved into their field of
view, drawing their attention. Shep frowned at him, but Sabian gasped, and it
was such a shocked and enlightened sound, it caused Shep to jerk. “What now?”
he demanded of Sabian, ignoring the man who now had a hand on the hilt of his
sword. A trembling hand, Shep noticed. The incongruity worried him, but so did
Sabian’s shock.
Sabian lifted a shaking hand to point. “Him.”
“What about him? He has a friend in the ward.
He reminds me of Taranis but …”
“More correctly, Shep, Taranis looked like this
man,” Sabian stated, his voice strengthening. He inhaled, and then bowed low.
“Well met, Karydor Danae.”
“Ohhh,” Shep breathed out. Shivers raced over
his skin, puckering every inch with goosebumps.
The man closed his eyes, and nodded. “You have
me there, Master Historian, and I have the sword known as Iniralin. Named for
hope and optimism, and future.”
Sabian blinked.
Grey eyes crinkled with something approaching
amusement when they reopened. Torrullin’s eyes. “Yes, I am well aware of what
this means. Not only do I appear to carry the blade that will save lives, if
you have the right of it, but this day I meet my son.”
“Ohhh,” Shep repeated in a hoarse voice.
Indeed.
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